


Reflections on Loving Benton Fraser

by shamusandstone (theleaveswant)



Category: due South
Genre: M/M, Post-Call of the Wild
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-11-06
Updated: 2008-11-06
Packaged: 2017-10-20 16:23:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/214682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theleaveswant/pseuds/shamusandstone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>as the title says</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reflections on Loving Benton Fraser

**Author's Note:**

> For hades_puppy's prompt "turpentine kisses and mistaken blows".

It's a strange thing, Ray reflects (but only ever to himself), being in love with a man like Fraser. Or a creature like Fraser, he feels he ought to say, since he's never met or imagined any _man_ even a little like Fraser.

He stands out, even among Canadians. The way he moves, in one moment fluid and graceful and completely unstoppable—as when leaping from a freight container onto the back of a fleeing smuggler or pushing Ray up against the cabin wall—yet in the next instant stiff, awkward and unsure—as when he drops his hat and, like a Chaplin act, kicks it away from himself when he stoops to scoop it up, or when, once he has Ray pinned, he freezes and stutters as if unsure what to do with him. The way he speaks, too—“my apologies,” he'll say when he accidentally backhands Ray while ripping off his shirt. “My apologies,” never “I'm sorry.” Never ever “I love you,” but then Ray doesn't say that either—he just twines his fingers through Fraser's and squeezes his hand, and feels that hand squeeze back.

The first time Fraser kissed him it was light, almost ethereal, like a tease or a figment of the imagination. There was a blizzard, a few weeks after they set out on their quest for Franklin. Fraser had pulled him into a cave, tacked a blanket over the mouth to keep out the wind and wrapped another around the two of them. They huddled there, shivering, then on some silent cue turned at once to face each other. Ray laughed at the coincidence but Fraser leaned in, his lips brushing Ray's soft and quick like an accidental slip.

“I'm not so cold I'm brittle,” Ray said, quiet, mouth barely moving but the words escaped in a plume of steam which coiled in the cold air only a moment before vanishing. It did not dissipate, however, but sucked between Fraser's parted lips on his next inhale. _Buddy breathing,_ Ray thought, _have you been waiting as long as I have?_ Whether he heard the words or tasted them, they worked, because Fraser's mouth was on him, hot and clumsy and hard enough to strip paint and more than worth walking away from his life for.

The name bothered him for a while after that. Last names are okay for colleagues, even for friends, but once that intimacy is out in the open doesn't it deserve to be named? Ray tried calling him Ben, Bento, Bennie, but it didn't feel right. Not in the light, at least, not with clothes on. Not any time except the warm moments wrapped up in his arms on the wavering edge of sleep. Fraser never commented, never complained or suggested that Ray call him anything else. So he gave up trying and trusted his hunch, rolled with what was comfortable.

And it is comfortable, in an unpredictable, indescribable way: going hours without talking, days without seeing another person, only dogs and birds and warped records (folk music, opera, and fairy tales) for company in the interim. Ray stokes the fire and creeps back to bed, pulling the caribou rug up around his shoulders and snuggling close to the creature he lives with, calls Ben during afterglow and Fraser at all other times; the creature he loves.


End file.
